“Then we support her.”
“We support the coffee.”
“Sometimes alliances begin small.”
“They also end in betrayal.”
“You need hobbies.”
“I have a restaurant.”
“That is not a hobby. That is a legal and emotional liability.”
I pick up the tablet again and move through the rest of the flagged reservations. Two are obvious industry men who will arrive pretending not to know each other. One is almost certainly a guide inspector, though the note is too clumsy to be useful. One is an influencer with three million followers and a booking name that matches the account because subtlety apparently died without notice.
Claire has written:Do not seat near pass. Will photograph everything.
For once, Claire and I agree completely. I assign that guest a corner table with poor angles and excellent lighting, which will allow them to photograph their own reflection in the glass if they become desperate enough. They usually do.
By 7:18 AM, the flagged reservations are reviewed, the first prep wave has settled into rhythm, and the kitchen smells like roasted bones, citrus peel, washed herbs, and coffee someone has made badly but with good intentions. Thomas pulls the second tray from the oven and looks to me before moving it.
The color is right.
I nod once.
He exhales as if he has been spared execution.
He has, technically.
Julien returns from the office with printed reservation sheets because he, despite several opinions about my paper calendar, also distrusts systems that can be destroyed by one bad update.
He places the sheets on the pass.
“S. Bennett is now table seventeen,” Julien says.
“I know.”
“Full tasting, both pairings, six weeks out.”
“I know that as well.”
“I wrote no special handling.”
“Good.”
“I also wrote no discussion outside management.”
I look up.
He shrugs. “If it is a critic, I don’t want the younger cooks whispering every time a woman eats alone.”
A woman.
Interesting.
The reservation system hadn’t provided that. Claire must have found it through the card name or email trace. Or Julien did, because Julien collects useful information and then pretends he stumbled over it.
“S. Bennett is a woman?” I ask.
